


Laundromat Ficlet

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the new set photos of Cas in the laundromat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundromat Ficlet

“Why would humans use such pointless technology?” Castiel slaps the washing machine as he waits for it to fulfill it’s purpose. Apparently, they don’t react to physical stimuli. He didn’t have a use for these things before. Had no reason to. Crossing his arms, Castiel forces his thoughts down a different path and considers the machine from a different angle.

“Perhaps it needs words,” Castiel mumbles to himself. He reclines so he’s leaning with his elbows on his knees and presses a cheek against the cold metal.

“Wash... work... do something,” he growls. It doesn’t work. Maybe it only understands Enochian? Castiel tests his theory to no avail and flops onto the linoleum floor.

His joints are aching, his muscles are strained and probably torn, and bruises and scrapes coat his body in a gruesome decoration. Castiel had never realized that the humans’ petty existence was rendered by daily toils such as subtle pains. He now understands why Dean was so adherent to taking utmost comfort in his breaktime; Castiel is exhausted.

The drone of the air conditioning coupled with the warm lighting of the room lull Castiel into a light nap. It’s nice; he never knew how human dreams worked. He dreams of home, not heaven, but the Winchesters. He sees a healthy young Sam smiling, the glimmering waves of a lake, the sleek black paint of the Impala. But most of all, he sees Dean. Constellations, only visible to his enhanced angelic eyes, of freckles decorating his tanned skin; he drowns in the alluring forests of Dean’s eyes. He relishes the imaginary touch of Dean’s calloused hands along his skin.

Castiel wakes with a start. How long has he been resting? He blinks against the oppressive lighting and sits up. There is a throbbing in his skull and his lower back and Castiel rubs at it, trying to force the pain away. He stands to find that the machine in which he’d placed his clothes atop is running. He scans the room for the charitable person and pulls at the jacket resting on his shoulders. Hold on. Castiel only has three pieces of clothing and a leather jacket is not among them.

Hyper-aware of his surroundings, Castiel searches out the culprit who provided assistance. He walks up the stairs and into the small lobby of the laundromat, finding only one other person with their back facing him. Castiel jerks to a halt. He knows those shoulders; he’d recognize their slope in a crowd of a million. The light brown hair and splash of freckles on the man’s neck only further Castiel’s suspicions.

He walks forward, cautiously, being careful not to startle the man, if his newly human senses prove faulty. Castiel perches himself over the man’s shoulders, unable to prevent his hand from reaching for him. He gently lays a hand on the man’s deltoid, holding his breath as his stomach does strange things.

And he turns. Dean’s eyes are on him, their warmth seeping into Castiel’s very soul, now that he even has one. His heart momentarily stutters, then continues at a pace twice than normal; Castiel briefly wonders if this vessel had Arrhythmia before Dean shifts and takes Castiel’s hand in his own.

“Hey, Cas,” he mutters, gruff and curt in true Winchester fashion. He stands and walks around the small chair to stand in front of Castiel. Castiel scans him, checking for any injury or any sign of emotional distress; there appears to be none. He notices Dean’s arms, though, and how they are slightly outstretched. Castiel steps away, anticipating another punch but is surprised by the tinge of hurt coloring Dean’s eyes. He lowers his arms, folding them over his chest, and leans against the chair he was positioned in earlier.

“What the hell happened out there, Cas?” he asks, lifting his brows in genuine curiosity. Castiel looks at his bare feet before answering. The guilt from what he did burns strong beneath his skin and he itches to cut it out. After a moment, he meets Dean’s eyes and answers.

“Metatron tricked me.” He brings a hand to his neck and bows his head in shame. He should’ve listened to Dean, he’s his best friend. And he chose to trust someone he had just met in his place. There is a growing hotness blooming on his face, blushing at the well deserved guilt.

Dean steps forward and envelopes him in his arms. A sturdy hand cradles the back of his head and ruffles his hair comfortingly. He leans his head against the righteous man’s shoulder and accepts the human comfort, regardless of its uselessness.

“We’ll deal with that later, Cas,” Dean assures, pulling away. He places a palm against Castiel’s face almost hesitantly and Castiel sighs at the sudden wave of compassion and leans into Dean’s touch. He opens his eyes and is greeted with Dean’s red face staring at him with something close to wonder. Dean speaks and Castiel knows that though he has fallen, he’s isn’t lost.

“Stay with me, Cas.”


End file.
